


Of Bullet Wounds and Russian Anecdotes

by Zinnith



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Don't Try This At Home, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Russian jokes, Vodka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4763549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zinnith/pseuds/Zinnith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Russian jokes are funny. At least Illya thinks so. Napoleon does not agree. Gaby is more concerned with the bullet in his leg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Bullet Wounds and Russian Anecdotes

**Author's Note:**

> For kinkfromuncle. The author is not a medical professional and neither are the characters. I also now know more about Russian political jokes than I ever wanted to know.

The blood trail runs from the car, over the snow, onto the porch, through the house, all the way into the bathroom. Gaby tries not to look at it while she goes hunting for the first-aid kit. It’s a lot of blood. 

“How is he holding up?” she asks when she returns, peeking through the door. Napoleon is on the floor, slumped against the bathtub, and Illya is kneeling beside him, unwinding the make-shift bandage around his thigh.

“He will live,” Illya says. “But the bullet needs to come out.”

“ _He_ can still hear you,” Napoleon growls through clenched teeth. 

Gaby slips into the bathroom and sets the first-aid kit down on the toilet seat. “There aren’t any painkillers,” she informs them, and Napoleon’s expression grows even more miserable. 

“That, I did not want to hear.”

“There’s this though.” Gaby holds out the bottle of vodka she found in the back of a cupboard. Illya takes it from her, pours a healthy splash over Napoleon’s leg, and then pushes the bottle into his hand. 

“Have a drink, Cowboy.”

Napoleon was pale even before Illya decided to drench his open wound in 80 proof grain alcohol. Now, he’s positively grey in the face, and his breathing is slow and controlled, like he’s trying very hard not to pass out. At Illya’s continued insistence, he takes a drink, and then makes a grimace. 

“That’s vile,” he complains. 

Illya shrugs and takes the bottle back. “Is Polish.” He still gulps some down himself. 

“I’d feel a lot better if you held off on the drinking until _after_ you’ve dug the bullet out of my leg.”

“I’m not digging bullet out of your leg,” Illya says, sitting down against the tub. He pulls Napoleon a little more upright to lean against him, careful not to jostle the injured limb, and then nods in Gaby’s direction. “She is.” 

“Ah.” Napoleon raises an eyebrow. “Miss Teller, I hope you’re as good with people as you are with cars.”

While they’ve been bickering, Gaby has already found the tools she needs. “Cars generally bleed less,” she says. “But I’ll do my best.” 

They don’t have much of a choice, really. Illya’s hands have been shaking since their narrow escape. He’s doing very well, keeping it in check, but he’s not up for improvised surgery in a safe house bathroom. 

It doesn’t take long to realize that it’s not going to be easy. The bullet has miraculously missed all major blood vessels, but it’s lodged deep in the muscle, the angle is awkward, and the blood makes everything slippery. Gaby keeps losing her grip on the pliers, and every time she slips, Napoleon squirms with pain. He’s being uncharacteristically quiet, biting his lip, probably because it’s either that or screaming in agony. 

“You need to stay _still_ ,” Gaby begs him the third time the stubborn bullet slides out of her grasp and Napoleon’s entire body tenses up, twisting away from the source of the pain.

Napoleon slumps against Illya’s shoulder, eyes closed and panting. “Where did that vodka go?”

They take a short break. Illya pours some more vodka down Napoleon’s throat and then rearranges him to sit between his stretched out legs, keeping him in place. Gaby washes the worst of the blood off her hands and goes back to work. It’s easier like this, she has more room to see what she’s doing, and Napoleon can’t move around as much. It’s still hard on him. He looks clammy and sick and his hair is damp with sweat. 

The bullet is coming out, but it’s going slow and the bleeding isn’t making it any better. Gaby sits back on her haunches. “I need to clean this out again. Napoleon, I’m sorry in advance.”

This time, when the alcohol hits Napoleon’s raw flesh, he goes completely limp in Illya’s arms, his eyes rolling up into his head until only the whites are visible. Illya taps his cheek, none too gently. “Stay awake, Cowboy. You cannot sleep yet.” 

The only response is an inarticulate noise. Illya presses two fingers against his throat and when he meets Gaby’s eyes over the top of Napoleon's head, he looks worried. “His pulse is not good.”

He should be in a hospital, not on a bathroom floor getting his leg mangled by a car mechanic, but that simply isn’t an option right now. Their extraction is days away and every local medical facility must surely be watched by now. Gaby grabs the pliers again. 

“Illya, talk to him. Keep him awake.” He came up with that ridiculous story about the Spanish Steps off the top of his head, so she knows he can spin a tale if he wants to. “A story, a joke, anything.”

“No,” Napoleon moans. “No Russian jokes. You can’t do that to me.”

Illya strokes his sweaty hair away from his forehead with the kind of gentleness that is usually reserved for Gaby. “Russian jokes are funny.”

“Russian jokes are terrible.” Napoleon blinks his eyes open. They’re hazy with shock, but he’s struggling back to awareness.

Illya takes a thoughtful swallow of vodka and then says, “A woman walks into store and asks, ‘Do you have any meat?’”

Napoleon’s eyebrows shoot up in abject misery. “Oh god, you are actually going to tell a joke, aren’t you? Gaby stop him, I’m already in enough pain as it is.”

“I told you, Russian jokes are funny. Now listen - A woman walks into store and asks, ‘Do you have any meat?’ and the man behind the counter shakes his head and says, ‘No, there is no meat today.’ ‘All right’, says the woman. ‘Do you have milk?’ And the man shakes his head again and says, ‘No, this is meat store. The store with no milk is on other side of the street.’”

It _is_ funny, even more so from Illya, and Gaby can’t hold back a smile. Napoleon groans and lets his head fall back. “Terrible.”

“I have one more. What do you do when vodka interferes with job?”

Napoleon only shakes his head. “Please stop.” 

“Get off job, of course.”

“This is torture.”

“What is exchange of opinions?”

“I’m not listening to you.”

“Is when you walk into your boss’ office with your opinion and walk out with his.”

Gaby cranes her neck, gets a better grip on the bullet, and pulls. This time, it does the trick. It slides out of the wound with a horrible sucking sound, followed by a new trickle of blood. Gaby grabs the closest towel and presses it against Napoleon’s leg. It makes him grit his teeth, and tears are running unbidden from the corners of his eyes. “Ah!” 

“Sorry, sorry,” she breathes. “I need to stop the bleeding.” 

“Oh, that? That’s nothing. I was referring to Peril’s awful jokes.”

His voice is shaking, he can barely keep his head up, and they’re not done yet. 

“Good, because I still have to stitch you up.”

Napoleon lets his eyes slide shut and draws a few deep breaths. “More vodka, please?” he asks. Illya has to wrap his fingers around Napoleon’s on the bottle to help him drink while Gaby threads a needle and sterilizes it. By the time she’s ready to start closing the wound, his eyes are bright with alcohol as well as pain. Illya steals the bottle back for himself and takes another swig, just as Gaby breaks Napoleon’s skin to make the first stitch.

“So, Cowboy. A man comes to the KGB to report stolen parrot…”

fin -

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt read as follows:
> 
> A mission goes tits up and during the getaway Napoleon gets shot. For whatever reason they can't go to a hospital (blown cover, too far away, etc) and backup won't be able to extract them or provide any aid for a few days so they're forced to deal with it themselves.
> 
> Gaby is amazing with her hands and can fix just about anything so she's chosen to be the ad hoc surgeon and Illya is super strong so he's in charge of holding Napoleon down and making sure he doesn't make it worse by squirming during the extraction. Napoleon is chosen to just...sit there and suffer through it.
> 
> Bonus if:
> 
> *Napoleon tries his best to keep up a brave face but the bullet is deep and hard to reach and the move Gaby digs, the more Napoleon breaks.
> 
> *Illya tries to keep him awake and conscious by telling him really awful Russian jokes or stories about his childhood.
> 
> *Napoleon finally falls unconscious (or is feverish/fidgety) so Gaby starts humming to him
> 
> These crazy kids are adorable guys and I really just want some bloody h/c with some fluffy cuteness toward the end =)
> 
>  
> 
> (I didn't manage to get all of that in there, but my mind just got stuck on this image of Illya telling Napoleon the most godawful jokes to keep his mind off the pain.)


End file.
